


Sometimes It Will Kill And Eat You Raw

by pretty_things_under_bloodstained_clothes



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Gerard Way, Depression, M/M, Student Frank Iero
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:21:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25813471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pretty_things_under_bloodstained_clothes/pseuds/pretty_things_under_bloodstained_clothes
Summary: Gerard is an artist struggling with the harsh reality that things were not as he had past thought. Trying to find that inspiration he had once had, he does his best to reclaim himself as he was before but maybe it was time for a new beginning, and along way the way meets a stranger intent on helping him.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Kudos: 3





	Sometimes It Will Kill And Eat You Raw

**Author's Note:**

> reposted from my old orphan account, was abandoned early last year, but i feel it's time to come back to this story and finish it.  
> don't own these people, just the story line, blah blah blah, usual copyright stuff.  
> anyway kudos comments all that sexy stuff is appreciated, will be updated soon.

The ringing of the phone woke me, without thinking I sat up expecting a call, to find it was only the alarm; with a sigh I turned it off and threw it back onto the bedside table and fell back onto my pillows with a dull thump. With tired eyes I glanced at the exposed window, and watch as pink dusks the early morning sky. This has and will always be my favourite part of the morning, but the reasons have differed compared to a few years ago when everything was so much simpler, mornings offer a fresh start, when they sun creeps into the sky, new beginnings are offered and chances to create beautiful things arise.

Things have changed though, but yet at this time I still find the solitude in the beauty, it being the only time I can forget before everything comes rushing back forcefully invading my mind, the only time I really feel free, but it’s not the same kind of freedom as before it’s not as forced, not as empty.

(I would rather starve and die as an artist than be normal)

I pushed myself up so my back rested against the headboard not once being able to tear my eyes away from the rising sun, just silently watching it drift upward into the atmosphere. If I stay focused on it, maybe my head will be clearer for longer, being at a point where even a second more of calm feels ethereal.

My eyes shut for just a moment and the spell was broken and I was pushed by regretful hands back into reality.

(My magnum opus will remain my art for all of eternity, even when my name is forgotten, my essence remains).

I drifted down the hallway passing artwork on the wall as I went, it doesn’t look the same as it used to, it feels foreign, and I carefully untacked it from the wall. It wasn’t the right time for it, but the time would come eventually and it would be wrong to destroy it.

Sometimes art needs to be destroyed, it’s time was up and had served its purpose in this world, it’s unhealthy to hold on to the past.  
(If only I took my own advice, how much simpler would all this be)

Looking at the blank wall arose a familiar feeling of inspiration, but it was still too soon as the pit in my stomach remained, art should remain pure, if it’s not then where’s the solace, where’s the safety. It would be meaningless, and all art should have meaning, maybe not some metaphorical in depth psychology major level meaning, but it should leave something, anything.

I walked into my kitchen -barefoot- padding carefully; I brewed a cup of coffee and hugged it to my chest basking in the warmth as the early morning chill finally started to set in, the cold tile under me making my ankles ache, grabbing the carton of cigarettes off the granite counter, I pulled one out, wincing slightly as I looked at the grotesque image on the front, I don’t know why the manufacturers bother honestly, it’s not going to stop me. I had hated to give in to the artist stereotype of smoking but it just felt right, and who was I to deny myself of that?

Perching on a window sill, I shivered as a breeze came through the open window, smoke fading into nothing as it dissipated into the harsh wind. The familiar feeling of burning entered my lungs but I was past caring after all these years.

Stubbing the stick of nicotine out on the ledge outside the window, hearing it hiss slightly as the slight damp from last night’s rain devoured it and left it void of any purpose. Create and destroy.

Grasping my coffee and sipping carefully, I let the bitter liquid mingle with the aftertaste of the cigarette creating something that left an emotion building in my chest.  
I walked along to my studio, reaching for the handle.  
But it just wasn’t time yet, I needed to learn how to create again, how to destroy. (Oh the insatiable dream of balance).

But I’m trying, I swear I’m trying.


End file.
